"There are always uprisings," answered Mercedes, covering a yawn, "generally in the eastern districts—nearer Santiago. They are like children, these people."
She turned, with a shrug which dismissed the subject, to Bill.
"Come," she urged prettily, "play my accompaniment for me. I want to sing you some of the old songs my little, Spanish grandmother taught her grandchildren."
We had a little while before we need dress for dinner, and so Bill followed her obediently into the living-room, and presently, her light, sweet voice floated out to Wright and me on the verandah.
"Sings well, doesn't she?" said Wright.
But I was not attending.
"Doesn't Bill seem worried to you?" I asked, more casually than my mental state warranted.
"Who? Bill? Why no, I don't think so," he answered, absently. "He's probably put all this native business out of his head by now. Bill's not an alarmist. Wonder what that song is—quaint, isn't it?"
But I was not satisfied, and after dinner, I deliberately found an opportunity, contrary to custom, to speak with my husband alone.
"About the Crowell plantation," I said, "is there any danger to them from the natives—to us?"